


Underwater (You and Me)

by Vrunka



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 19:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrunka/pseuds/Vrunka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An excuse to write some smut in the Mansion Drug Room. And then some plot happened. It's pretty long but it's a one-shot, I promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underwater (You and Me)

Chris’ mouth tasted like wine, a syrupy-sharpness in the back of his throat that clashed bitterly with his taste buds. He had avoided drinking wine since Claire’s high school graduation when he’d downed a bottle of Dom Pérignon mostly by himself (an experience that he would just as soon not go through again, thank you very much). Ever since that incident he’d been strictly a beer man. Well, beer and the occasional scotch or bubbly. But the flavour in his mouth, that grape’s fermented aftertaste of his throat, that was wine. For certain. You didn’t question these things after you’d spent an hour--several actually, though Chris had tried hard to put the still-drunk and vomiting morning after Claire’s graduation far behind him--bent over the toilet expelling the chemical after effects brought on by that flavour.

So where had he gotten the wine?

He ran a hand across his face, wincing at the rough feel of the growth on his chin. At least a days worth of stubble, maybe a day and a half if the bright sunshine dancing through the window to Chris’ right was any indication on the time of day. Almost two days without shaving, what the fuck had he been into? And then there was the issue of that said same window. It was to his right, the window in his apartment was across from his bed, and he doubted that he’d been moving the furniture. The sheets he was comfortably swaddled in were wrong too. Egyptian silk, three hundred count, probably, far too classy for Chris’ tiny twin.

He slipped his legs from under the sheets, only slightly surprised to realise he was naked beneath the bedspread. He’d obviously found himself in the company of some classy dame, a broad with her priorities straight, who’d invited him to stay the weekend at her villa in France where she’d proceeded to keep him in a Chardonnay and sex stupor. Or so he hoped. Some dark part of his mind whirled nervously, presenting him with abstract images from his lost time; a glass of wine held to the light, an elbow leaning on the fine granite of a clean counter, a flash of gold in the mirror above the dresser across the room from the bed. Images, nothing more; when he probed deeper the images fled completely, pulling the more important pieces, the story that matched the details, away from him. Breaking the news gently. He shrugged off his mind’s mutiny, with uncharacteristic stoicism. He wasn’t so sure he wanted to know what was going on. Wasn’t so sure that he wanted his villa in France dream broken.

Chris rooted around the room until he found a lush robe, a deep velvet green colour that was made of the material he was pretty sure clouds were made of. He managed to find a watch too stuck in a dresser drawer next to a crystal ashtray. It wasn’t his watch, but a unisex cut with a small Rolex label beneath the face. Classy broad indeed, or at least rich. Chris had drawn and found himself lucky, it seemed. He resolutely ignored the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up from depths of his stomach at the thought.

According to the date on the watch it was May fifth. A Sunday, he figured after a moments calculation. He had worked on the third, had met with Forest at the bar after work, as he always did on Fridays. It was only Saturday that was a blur. Saturday and half of Sunday, as the watch’s emotionless hands told him it was almost two in the afternoon.

Chris’ stomach let out a rather loud complaint as he spied the time, and dropped the watch back into the drawer. He couldn’t remember his last meal, but he was sure a woman as rich as the one who lived with the bedroom he was currently invading would know how to cook. No, not know how to, she’d have a cook. Some sort of professional job flown in from Italy or whatever. That happy thought held firmly in mind, Chris headed out of the bedroom to find the kitchen.

It didn’t prove to be a very difficult task; the floor plan was not all that unlike his own little dive in downtown Raccoon City, this apartment was just furnished better. Chris found himself sighing despite himself, so it wasn’t a villa. Bummer.

He was only more bummed when he moved passed a closed door in the hall, from behind which the sound a shower could be heard running, reminding Chris’ bladder suddenly that it needed release bad. He frowned. There hadn’t been another bathroom off the bedroom and he couldn’t imagine a half-bath hidden anywhere else in the apartment. Sullen, he moved into the kitchen, where more disappointment waited.

Empty wine glasses sat on the counter, two, though one had apparently fallen, cracking the flute. Chris touched the broken one, spinning it by the neck, looking for a lipstick stain, hoping the splash of colour would help to jump start his more than finicky memory, but there was none to be found. On either glass.

‘Of course not,’ his mind rationalised, ‘W--,’

“--omen as rich as this one wear no-stain, colour-stay lipstick.” He finished out loud, nearly jumping at the sound of his own voice. He accepted his own deduction with a sniff, still unsure of whether he truly wanted to know what had happened in his lost day and a half.

The rest of the kitchen was spotless. Neither a crumb of food nor speck of dust marred the expensive-looking black granite counters. Chris went to open the fridge, mildly hoping to root up cold filet mignon for breakfast, but he decided against it. Ignoring the protests of his stomach, he headed instead to the phone posted on the wall by the front door.

He had missed an entire Saturday, a day normally reserved for Forest and he to hit the park, barring that neither man had work. He remembered making the plans, remembered walking to the bar Friday night with Forest and making plans to play basketball the next day. There were sure to be messages on his phone, Forest worried over his absence. Not that the southern man would mind, once explanations were made, but it was only courtesy to call now, rather than later. Chris actually had the phone halfway to his ear when he placed it back down on the cradle. It wouldn’t be fair to his host, using her telephone without permission. Besides he would see Forest the next day at work and everything would be smoothed over.

‘Sorry, buddy,’ he thought, turning away from the phone, ‘but the captain’s ordered radio silence.’ He shuddered suddenly at the thought, unsure of where it had come from, uncomfortable with the sureness of the voice it echoed in. He had spent a day in a rich woman (person’s) apartment, having sex (fucking) and drinking (binging) on wine (so that he wouldn’t have to remember the harsher details in the morning). Chris shook his head, like he could toss the thoughts physically from his body. It seemed to silence the thousand strange voices that were shouting directions in his brain. He opened his eyes slowly, gaze coming to rest back on the phone, on the blinking red light above the external answering machine.

All at once he could taste the wine again, the sickly prickling taste of laced bile dragging up from his stomach. He fought down the urge to vomit, taken aback by how sudden it had been, how unreasonable. A feeling of dread had been twisting through him since he woken up and it tightened now, wrapping around his throat like a boa constrictor, suffocating and all-consuming.

And yet his hand was moving of its own volition, determined to un-mine the truth of his mystery lover. It hovered for a moment, touching but not pushing the blinking button and Chris tried for all he was worth to pull his hand back, to flee back to the bedroom and bury himself in the thousand dollar sheets. But he couldn’t move, the mutiny complete, the paralysis taking his muscles and free will away. The world’s strictest game of red light, green light.

The shower shut off, the click of the water ringing through the apartment.

His hand shot forward, reacting to the sudden sound as an animal would to gunfire. The box began to speak before the button was even fully depressed, the coolly professional voice of a mechanical woman telling him the time and date of the message, then the machine beeped and clicked over to the rushed voice of a man.

“Albert?” He was breathing heavy, like a perverted caller. “Fuck, Albert. God damn it if you’re there you’d better pick up. I know you fucking screen your calls,” a hurried pause. Chris could imagine the man dropping the phone from his ear to his shoulder and looking around, checking that he wasn’t being watched. “Damn. Ok, fine, Albert, listen. There’s been some…leaks?” Said as though it wasn’t the right word, like that wasn’t the right word at all. “It seems like--like, well, fuck, like things aren’t. God, I don’t know. Fucking call me back.” Another pause, Chris thought he’d hung up, then the frightened man’s voice spoke up again. “It’s William, by the way.” Then the machine clicked the message over and said no more.

Albert.

The name echoed around Chris’ mind like a profane prayer, like a mantra of the damned. Chris sank against the island, wishing fervently that it was his own cheap Formica counter with the burns on it from the time he’d attempted to make Jill birthday cookies. Albert. The captain had ordered radio silence all right, had ignored the phone that rang and rang ceaselessly. Chris had dropped his glass, cracked the flute. He’d been drunk at that point, beyond caring that the wine he was sloshing tasted bitter and sickly. Albert (Wesker, Chris’ mind screamed, he told you to call him Wesker, not sir or captain or Albert, Wesker) had laughed in his high, classically British way. And he’d ordered radio silence.

Chris threw himself over the sink (an industrial steel model, he noticed without noticing) and let the wine out of his system, clenching his eyes shut and wishing it over. When it was, he flipped the faucet on and drank directly from the tap. Sucked it right from the source. Seamlessly, he turned his head and threw up again.

He’d done it, he knew without the visual aid of memory. The motion; kissing the mouth of the tap, the cylindrical pull, the sucking; the motion was horrifyingly familiar. He’d sucked Wesker’s (that’s more like it) cock. But beyond the ocean of unease and panic that he was now floating in was the beach of acceptance. He sucked off the tap again, spitting out the water and the gritty, clinging bits of sickness. This time the act didn’t set his head to spinning. The tightness in his stomach unclenched.

He had sucked off a man (never mind that it was his boss, that was a bridge that could be burned later), but big deal. How many guys on the Raccoon high wrestling team (a team Chris had only had a month-long stint in, mind you) had given each other hand jobs because it helped ‘relieve stress’? Sometimes things just happened. It was a don’t ask don’t tell kind of thing, sure. But a small thing, not a big thing. Right? Right.

But more than just a ‘thing’ had happened, oh God, so much more, and Chris could feel the other details, the ones he was trying so hard to keep suppressed scurrying around the corners of his mind, looking for the light. There had been orders. A game? Chris couldn’t remember. But orders, and he, Christopher Redfield, the ultimate rule breaker, had followed them. Drunk and willing, blissful and ignorant.

He lifted his head from the sink, letting the tap run to wash away the excess vomit still clinging to the stainless steel. He stood up straight and heard the snick of the bathroom door as it whispered closed. Heard the plodding, yet soft, sound of bare feet in the hall, moving toward the kitchen. He turned, he had to, wishing that he didn’t, knowing that when he did he would be face-to-face with the captain, his boss, (his) Albert Wesker. His head seemed to turn slower than the rest of him, completing its rotation with a creak, like the hinges of his neck were rusted in place.

Wesker, as if there had ever really been a question in Chris’ mind, in the flesh. And little else. Chris thought he’d die, melt right down and join his vomit in the drain. Wesker would kill him, wandering around his home, listening to his private messages (though Chris could remember precious little but the man saying “Albert” and breathing like a man who’d outrun the devil), throwing up in his spotless sink. But Wesker just looked around, as if puzzled, his blue eyes practically sliding over Chris in their overview of the kitchen. His mouth pulled to one side, a puzzling little pout, and then he looked abruptly at Chris. “Were you talking to someone in here?” His bright gaze cut like a laser, caught every detail.

Chris shook his head, terrified for reasons that were beyond even his own comprehension. He was on the cusp of something, some detail that could change everything, that could end his life, or prolong it, but for that said same life, Chris didn’t know what that revelation could be or where it would come from or what it pertained to. All he knew was there was something dark in Wesker’s shifting gaze, some warning sign in his flushed cheeks, like a snake throwing up warning colours (black and yellow, kill a fellow).

“Nobody but me.” Chris confirmed, finding his voice, forcing it between his teeth. The lie felt clumsy and he was sure Wesker would call him out then and there but when the man said nothing he bumbled on, hoping his own crimson cheeks wouldn’t give him away. “I s-sorta made a mess in your sink. I’m afraid wine doesn’t sit well in my stomach.” He gave his boyish grin then, the one that had won him pussy on more than one occasion, the one that had also apparently landed him cock. He hoped it looked sincere.

The darkness disappeared with that grin, dissipating like the greatest magician’s trick. Alakazam and it’s gone, but see nothing up my sleeves. Wesker returned the motion, crossing his arms and leaning against the island that separated them. “Oh. I thought I heard something.” His smile was smoother than the velvet of the robe Chris wore. It was a smile to put pearls to shame, and it simultaneously terrified Chris and made his insides turn in on themselves. ‘I’m attracted to this man,’ Chris realised belatedly, his gaze dropping to the floor. He had no idea when it had happened, but somewhere between the captain’s joining S.T.A.R.S. and seeing him wrapped in only a towel in a kitchen no glorified police officer should be able to afford, Christopher Redfield had become insanely physically attracted to him.

And, insanely, he seemed okay with that.

He was dredging through the shallows now, his feet digging into the sands of Beach Acceptance. And he was okay with that too.

“Sorry about your sink.” He said lamely, taking a step around the island, a step toward Wesker. “But you were in the--,” his need to pee exploded through him before the word bathroom was even out of his mouth and he was powering past Wesker to the blindingly clean porcelain closet that was the apartment’s excuse for a full bath. He almost whited-out from the relief of releasing his bladder and when his mind blinked back into focus he realised Wesker was standing at the door he’d neglected to close, chuckling, an amused smile accenting his features.

‘The first real smile’, Chris thought but it was shuttled away quickly by embarrassment and the cusp of another revelation was stolen from him. He coughed into the back of his hand, giving Wesker a glance over his shoulder and shifting from foot to foot.

“I can’t go if you watch.”

“Anxiety issues?” Something in Wesker’s tone was mocking. Chris felt childish; he looked back down, focused on the raised toilet seat.

“I just don’t like to be watched.” He reiterated.

“Not what you said last night.”

Chris flushed, understanding that Wesker was right, but about something wholly different than peeing. He looked at the captain. “I didn’t--,”

“Christopher, Christopher, you’re being childish.” The way Wesker said his name, the sharp bisection of the‘t’ rolling so smoothly through to the end, it was like being chided at school. It made him feel ashamed all over again.

He turned to the sink to wash his hands, fingers ghosting over the bottle of hand soap (the name was something French, that Chris couldn’t read, he’d taken the three required years of foreign language in Spanish) when his muscles froze up. It was red light, green light again, only this time the light was a hand on his shoulder, he could feel the warmth, the weight of it through the plush layer of robe.

“Did I upset you?” Wesker’s voice was in his ear, puffing around the shell in a mint cloud. Chris looked up from his hands, focused on Wesker’s reflection, wrestling with these new feelings of wanting Wesker and not fully trusting him and trusting him beyond belief. Here was a man who held not only Chris’ job, but his life in his hands. Here was his boss, whose eyes sometimes held something dark and snakelike in them but were more often than not just blue and slightly veiled, like they were now, meeting Chris’ just above his shoulder. Here was his captain, whose hands were soft despite his line of work and those hands had left his shoulders and had slid down to cup his ass.

“Christopher?”

He had held that said same man’s cock in his mouth, had sucked it like a tap. Had let himself be fucked by it (even in this morning after glow he couldn’t tag it as love making or even something so tame a just having sex, they had fucked, raw and animalistic) and had waded through many emotions on his way to Acceptance Beach. He turned now, allowing Wesker to pull him closer so that their hips connected and Chris didn’t shy away from the feel of Wesker’s erection nestling, pressing, pleading against his thigh.

‘That’s how you can tell the real whores,’ his mind piped up bitterly, the slurred and drunken voice of his father, ‘the real whores aren’t afraid of the love stick, they let it touch ‘em all over.’ It sickened Chris, made him want to scream, and a new wave of panic tingled through his spine. But then Wesker was kissing him, a slow kiss, not even hinting at the need he seemed to remember from the night (and most of the day, his memory admitted slowly) before. Not that there wasn’t passion in the kiss, but it didn’t hold the same unrestrained wanting. There was almost something loving in it, something deeply caring and soft and the voices and the panic that Chris had thought safely behind him came welling back up through his stomach to his throat.

Acceptance Beach, it seemed, was more like a sandbar, a small reprieve from the waves of panic and shame and fear and the whirlpools of panic and shame and fear and ‘oh, God I need it in me now’ lust.

The next thing he knew, they were tangled in the sheets and he was getting a close-up view of the Egyptian silk he’d been admiring earlier. He was aware of every thread in the three-hundred count, every nerve in his body, the feel of the silk under his fingertips. He was aware that Wesker was speaking into his ear, saying something (“brace yourself”) but the words were beyond him, scrambling into toneless gibberish when they reached his brain. And then there were Wesker’s fingers, pushing into him, completing but not quite filling him.

Chris groaned, the feeling echoing as familiar and good and warm, and he glanced over his shoulder at Wesker. “You gonna keep going?” His voice was rough-hewn and uneven and as soon as he’d spoken he wished that he hadn’t. It brought everything too into focus, scattered the silence that had been woven round him. The eddies of his emotions dipped and it was suddenly important that Wesker not answer, if he did, Chris might just lose his mind.

The captain didn’t though, he just grinned, cool and collected in every situation, and shifted his hips forward.

Wesker’s cock was large and thick and wouldn’t fit, couldn’t fit without tearing something that Chris really wouldn’t want torn and that even with lube (which Chris had completely missed the application of having been too caught up in the expensive feel of the sheets and Wesker’s fingers trailing down his back) it still hurt, a dull aching throb so different (but not quite) then the throb of lust and need that had gotten him into this mess, and was getting sharper with every fraction of a centimetre that Wesker edged deeper. And then the motion stopped and Chris wanted to scream, to howl, to tell Wesker to take it out now, to demand him to keep going, put it all in.

“You okay?” Wesker’s voice in his ear again, his chest pressing flat against Chris’ back. There was something pinched in Wesker’s tone, something that hinted at the animal passion of the night before.

“I’m.” What was he? (take it out put it in stuff me with it fucker) “--fine.”

“You weren’t breathing for a second there. Just focus on that and the pain will pass.” And Chris realised that in the span of time that they’d been speaking that the biting ache, the buzz-saw agony had died down to a mild discomfort.

“I’m really fine.” He persisted through his teeth. “Keep going.” So Wesker did, and Chris took it like a man. Laughter, insane, hysterical giggles, bubbled up from the pit of his stomach at the thought and threatened to boil out in a bray, but Chris managed to suppress it down. He focused on his breathing and the burning in his ass that was steadily turning wonderful. The next time Wesker stopped it was because he was fully seated.

“You okay?” It was an echo from moments earlier, tight and pent up and passionate. He was being courteous for courtesy’s sake. Chris nodded, unable to trust his voice, and Wesker’s hips sawed back and slammed forward before the motion was even completed. Chris saw stars.

With all the women he’d been with (and that was a grand total of eight, counting Molly Thomas his high school steady who he’d only fingered after the prom and sweet talked into giving him a blowjob as recompense) he couldn’t remember the feeling as being this intense. This needy. Of course, he’d never had them insert anything into his ass, and at that moment something was very definitely inserted there, but he didn’t think that was the only reason. Women were soft where Wesker was smooth. Women were made for receiving where Wesker was made for the giving of gifts. Women were like porcelain, women were like silk. Wesker was an uncut diamond, all rough edges and thrills. Something in Wesker could bite back.

Chris sighed into the feeling, arching back for the first time and relishing in the feel of the thickness pushing just that little bit deeper, just that little bit harder. Above him, Wesker chuckled, his hands changing position on Chris’ hips and he tilted himself slightly up. His cock hit Chris’ prostate and the blinding feeling of rightness whited out all need for thought. Chris pushed himself backwards, unwilling to lose that spark, that white hot instant of perfection. He balanced a majority of his weight on his palms, ignoring the screaming protest in his shoulders when he did so. There would be time for his shoulders later. Right then, all he wanted was a repeat of that feeling. Wonderfully, Wesker obliged, reading the want in Chris’ response, and his second strike had Chris calling out wordlessly, his fingers scrabbling on the sheets, tearing at the fabric.

Wesker grunted and there was warmth and another thrust which stoked Chris lightly and an eddy in the sea of confusion and lust dragged him into a whirlpool and Chris faded out.

He opened his eyes and figured he was on another beach (at least he hoped it was a beach and not another sandbar) where all emotion had fled except the feeling of satisfaction curling through his muscles and stomach. Wesker lay beside him, not sleeping, but studying the ceiling with an expression of deep concentration on his features. The intensity made him look almost old, aged beyond his years, like the oldest, loneliest man in the world. He hadn’t noticed Chris’ waking.

There was a slight hint of anger to that expression, a knife edge at the statuesque curve of Wesker’s lips, something unspeakably dangerous in the flicker of his blue eyes. It unnerved Chris in ways he couldn’t justify, even to himself. He was no longer alone on that emotionless beach, uncertainty had joined him. And it was a loud and nosy neighbour, to be sure.

He closed his eyes, coughed and shifted, hoping to pull Wesker out of his brooding stupor before the captain realised he was being watched. Somehow, he didn’t think that gesture would be appreciated. Chris made a great show of stretching, wincing in horror as he realised that Wesker’s seamen had dribbled out of him and was drying on the inside of his thigh, and opened his eyes. He looked over a Wesker, expecting to see that dark look, but there was only Wesker, looking satisfied, if not slightly worn, and smiling.

“I thought you were asleep.” He looked away from Chris, eyes sliding over to the mirror. Chris met his gaze in the reflection. “I was looking forward to watching it. I missed last time.”

Chris smiled, his cheeks heating with embarrassment under the scrutiny. “I’m not tired.”

“Oh, but you are.”

“What?”

Wesker laughed, a refined, British chuckle. “If you weren’t, then why would you be sleeping?”

“I’m not sleeping.” Chris frowned, worry revolving around his brain. From outside the bedroom door, he began to smell something. Something deep and rotten, a stench that caressed the edges of the wood, seeping in and steeping the room with its odour. “What is that stink?”

Wesker ignored his question. “You mean you shouldn’t be sleeping.” Wesker looked at him then, no longer naked as he’d been a moment earlier, but clad in his blue S.T.A.R.S. uniform, his typical sunglasses in place. “They’re coming, Christopher.”

And with that, Chris awoke, in a smaller, cheaper, dirtier room. Alone.

It was the smell that had brought him back, the sickly, sour smell of fruit allowed to over-ripen and rot. Except it wasn’t fruit littering the halls and grounds of the Spencer mansion, it was bodies. Dead, walking bodies. 

Chris coughed, the stench hitting him full force as he came fully into consciousness. It was a vital scent, one that heckled his gorge and his survival instinct. It was a primal scent--like the smell of sex--that evoked primal instincts. Chris sat up, fighting down his need to puke, and raked his hands over his face.

His friends were dead, they were all dead. They had to be. He knew for a fact that Joseph was, he had seen it. The memory of his screams and the wet sound that followed, when he no longer had a throat to scream from, of the tearing sound, the sound of flesh parting from bone, muscles hewn by canine teeth, dried Chris’ mouth out with horror. Kenneth too, his headless body, the gaping place at the junction of his shoulders. The glistening gleam of off-white bone and too-red insides. And worst of all (though it seemed so cruel to think worst of all, because all of the S.T.A.R.S. had been Chris’ friends and all of their deaths hurt him more deeply than he cared to admit) Forest. Forest had not only been dead--dead and rotting and ripped to hell by harrowing, pointed beaks--but he’d come back. He’d stood up, and those unseeing, gaping holes where his eyes had once been had looked right at Chris and that ripped, drooling mouth had--

Chris pinched his ear, the pain forcing the memory to recede. He had shot Forest down. He’d had to. A shudder raked through him at the thought. He’d shot down his best friend in the entire world, killed him. For a second time. But that was neither here nor there, really. Because either way Forest was dead, on to a better place they always said, while Chris’ problems were still very much pressing.

Jill was missing. So was Barry. So was Enrico. Brad had fucking run away. Rebecca was probably dead. Richard was gone, also probably dead. And Wesker.

Chris looked down at his hands. Wesker’s disappearance was the rawest, like newly burned skin over his heart. He was sure the dream he’d been having played around the fact that Wesker was missing with all others. It had been memories mostly, of their first time together. A subconscious desire to see the captain again or something.

A moan; a moan so very close and very guttural and terrifying; echoed in the corridor just outside of the door and Chris was reminded painfully of how precarious his situation was. He had next to no ammo. He had next to no herbs. He had no more fuel, so he couldn’t burn the corpses (because for some fucking reason, the corpses of the corpses were getting up again and fighting back harder than before). He had no clue what he needed to do next.

He had found a key, small and gold and engraved with the image of a sword, and a silver dog whistle, and a small, bronze octagon, picturing the wind, but nothing useful. Nothing that would help him escape or find his missing compatriots. Nothing that mattered. The mansion hurt his head, and his heart. It was a maze of puzzles and traps and death designs and monsters, and Chris hoped that whoever had built this hell-hole had suffered greatly for their deviousness.

He pulled himself to standing, checking that his Beretta was loaded (only twelve shots left, barring that he found ammo, which didn’t seem likely, what sort of person would leave ammo just lying about?) and that all the items he had found were safely tucked into pockets. He put the octagon away last, contemplating it. There was nothing spectacular about it, no noticeable uses, yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind. The tiger had given it to him in exchange for an eye; it had to be important for someone to hide it with such pomp and circumstance. He sighed, tucked the item into his vest pocket. One could never be sure what would come in handy, especially in this place.

Chris pushed the door to the hallway open, pausing when he heard the shuffle and moan of an approaching zombie. From around the corner. He ignored the stairs in front of him, holding his gun steady, and poked his head around the corner.

The zombie moaned again, a pitiful sound, mournful and lonely. It turned toward Chris, catching his scent, hearing him, it didn’t matter. Its raw arms came up to shoulder level and it took a stiff step forward. The scent washed over Chris stronger than it had with the other inhabitants of the house. This one was fresher, still in the early, ripe stages of putrescence. Chris raised his gun; let the abomination shuffle a little closer, lined up his shot. Pulled the trigger. The thing’s head snapped back on its creaking neck, but it continued walking forward, stalking closer to its prey. Chris cursed his luck. He’d been hoping to get it in one shot. The mansion was doing terrible things to his once-perfect aim.

It was shaking him to the core. Chris shrugged off the thought, considered the problem at hand. The zombie seemed to sense his unease, it’s shambling, lock-kneed walk sped up. He fired again, faster that time, struck the thing in the shoulder, again, hitting it in the temple. It seemed to do the trick. The zombie went down, not even bleeding as its head hit the wooden floor. Chris winced, lowered his gun. Hurried past.

He turned a corner in the hall, passing a trolley loaded with cleaning supplies (the only place in the mansion that didn’t stink of rotting human) and found himself facing two doors. The one dead in front of him was locked and he found, after a quick inspection, the carving of a helmet on the plate above the lock. Chris sighed, tried his sword key for good measure, and cursed when he only managed to get the key jammed. Irritated, he tried the second door in the hall, the one to his right.

The handle turned when he wriggled it, but the door didn’t budge. Locked too. But this time with no carving of any sort to clue him in on how to enter. Chris was tired of it. He tested the door once more, figured its weight in his head, then stepped back and kicked it. Hard. With enough force to shatter the lock, and the wood surrounding it. The door swung inward and Chris smiled at his personal victory over the house that had become his new nightmare.

Sadly, the smile didn’t last long.

All he saw was a flash, colour, movement, then he was hit by something. A form slighter than his, but powerful nonetheless. It struck Chris head on and sent him down, knocking him back into the wall across from the door. His head hit the window. The glass cracked dangerously, but held. The window mattered little to Chris though. His hands were pushing against the solid weight on top of him, scrabbling for purchase while he tried futilely for his combat knife, his gun, a vase, fucking anything to get the creature off of him. Then he noticed the hair. And the way the thing atop him was no longer attacking.

“Captain?”

“Chris?”

Chris sighed, focused on Wesker’s face. The blonde’s glasses had fallen off, were lying useless on the floor, his hair was a right mess. It was the worse that Chris had ever seen him. Wesker’s look of shock was quickly replaced with his normal expression of stoic coolness.

“I didn’t expect…” The captain began, but he didn’t get to finish his sentence. Because Chris was kissing him with abandon.

“I thought you were dead.” Chris said in a rush, breath sliding over Wesker’s cheek. “I thought you were dead and--and that you’d come back. You’d come back but you wouldn’t have eyes and I’d have to kill you again like I had to do with Forest and I couldn’t, I couldn’t bear that thought. I couldn’t.” He was shifting under Wesker, kissing the blonde again, for good measure, lips catching any available piece of flesh. Wesker seemed to take the hint and raised some of his weight, letting Chris’ hips slide more thoroughly under his own. Letting him feel how hard Chris was. “I know.” Chris said, blushing when the captain looked at him, single eyebrow raised like an arch. “Just, don’t ask.” His hand was on Wesker’s belt then, tugging at the plackets of his pants, desperate for the prize.

A random jerk, on a random wall, in a random mansion full of crazy monsters. It made sense to Chris, the insanity of it all.

“Please.” He whispered, when Wesker’s hand found his wrist, slowed his frantic motions.

“Christopher.” The voice grounded him. He allowed his hands to be removed. “What are you doing?”

“I want you.” As if to punctuate his statement, his hips gave an involuntary twitch, rubbing his erection over Wesker’s clothed ass. He almost lost himself in the motion, rocking up again and hissing as the friction seared through him again. But then the weight on him was gone and he opened his eyes.

Wesker was standing, staring down at Chris. There was no anger in the gaze, no form of reprimand. Only a slight, misty confusion. He shook his head slowly and helped Chris to standing. “We can’t.” The captain said, all business and authority and seriousness. Which made sense, it wasn’t exactly the place for a quickie. “Not now.” He slipped his sunglasses on and looked away from Chris. “I’m looking for something.”

“Don’t you mean someone? Jill and Barry and the others?”

Wesker’s head snapped back around, Chris could feel the gaze, even from behind the sunglasses. “What? Well, yes, but they aren’t the--look, Christopher, if we’re going to get out of here, alive that is, we need to find these…” He sighed. “Crests? There’s a garden on the other side of the house with a door out. But the door is locked and you need to find all of the keys.”

“Crests?” Chris echoed. “And you’re sure it’s an exit? Won’t those dog things just come around to that exit and eat us there?”

“No, no. There’s a helipad out there. And probably a working radio. Haven’t you noticed your radio doesn’t work in here? I don’t know why.”

Chris didn’t bother to tell Wesker that he’d lost his radio in the mad-dash run through the field surrounding the house. Somehow the detail seemed unimportant in light of the new questions pressing in on him. “What about the others?” He asked, always the loyal friend. And then suddenly, “How do you know all this?”

Wesker shrugged, incredulous. “I found a map. And I saw the lock. I explored that part of the house first.” He sniffed, shuffled his feet. He wanted to be away, Chris could read that much in his body language. Probably eager to find the crests and get out. It only made sense. That didn’t help to quell Chris’ growing unease. Something about their rendezvous all those months ago, something said or something seen, nagged at the back of Chris’ mind, whirled emphatically. Wesker’s next words, brushed all the doubt away.

“I found Barry too, actually.”

“Barry? Really?! Alive?” Wesker nodded, smiling faintly at Chris’ excitement. “Oh, thank God, but where is he? Shouldn’t we all stick together?”

“I don’t think so. We’ll find the crests faster if we’re split up. Barry had the same idea. He and Jill split up earlier. She’s probably alive too.”

Chris sighed at the news, found himself smiling. “That’s great.”

“Not really. Unless we get out of here. Can’t do that without the keys, Chris, that’s what I’ve been saying. Plus, with the radio in the helipad we can try and contact everyone, those who are still alive at least.” Chris was nodding along now, not really listening, mind jumping ahead. Yeah, it would be easy, find the crests, save everyone. It couldn’t be that hard, just couldn’t be. “--won’t be easy, of course. This mansion was built to keep people from getting out the back way. It’s full of traps, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Huh?” Chris looked up. “Oh, uh, yeah. But look I don’t think it’ll be that--,”

“And what we’re looking for isn’t very big. Palm sized, there about. Bronze little octagons. They have pictures on them too, it’s a puzzle, but the pictures don’t matter until we’re putting them in the lock.”

“No, I know, but I really don’t--,”

“And then there’s the problem of the locks. Some of the doors can only be opened with special keys and as…impressive as the Rambo stunt you just pulled was, breaking down every door you come upon doesn’t seem like a good way of moving through this place.”

“Wesker!” Chris yelled it, throwing his hands out and catching the captain’s shoulders, shaking him lightly. The blonde’s glasses slid down his nose, revealing his blue eyes, bright with surprise. “Sorry,” Chris continued, blushing through the words, “but you wouldn’t let me finish. I don’t know how many crests you need, or anything, but you can knock that number down one.” he pulled the small metal plate from his vest, held it forward. “These are the things you’re looking for right?”

Wesker smiled. A true smile, lips curling over his perfect, even teeth, and Chris felt proud of himself. His pride only increased when Wesker pressed him against the wall, lining their bodies up, rubbing into the slightly shorter man. His hand came rest on the crest, other sliding down Chris body, making the brunette groan, his earlier erection returning with fervour.

“I thought there wasn’t time?” Chris asked against Wesker’s temple, jokingly.

Wesker kissed his neck, bit at the skin. “There is now, we have a lot less work to do.” His fingers seemed to be everywhere at once, tracing Chris’ jaw, tugging at his hair, pushing at his hips. Chris raised his leg, attempted to pull the captain closer, to wedge himself tighter into that welcoming heat. Wesker chuckled against his throat. “But you’re right.” He said, grabbing at Chris’ leg, lowering it. “This isn’t the place.” Chris made a noise of protest, his hands finding Wesker’s shoulders, fingers digging into the thick fabric. “Relax, Christopher, I know a place. We can resume there; we shouldn’t be,” he glanced at the still locked door next to them. For the first time, Chris noticed the moans coming from behind it, “bothered there.” He held his hand out, and Chris took it, allowed himself to be led back to the room he had come from.

He fell heavily onto the cot, pulling off his vest as he did so. This wouldn’t be a lengthy meeting of flesh, Chris knew, the constraints of their situation wouldn’t allow that, but he certainly wanted to be comfortable. He noticed Wesker too, his back to the door that he had both closed and locked, was loosening his shirt, undoing his pants.

He crossed the room quickly, climbing onto the cot and straddling Chris, kissing the man with a fire that Chris didn’t quite remember from any of their other times. The two had had a lot of sex, but there was something final about this, something climactic. Chris chalked the feeling up to their situation, unlike all those other times; there was a good chance they could die after this meeting. 

“I’m not sure we should.” Wesker was murmuring, his lips freed from Chris’, ghosting over the brunette’s neck.

“Should what?”

Wesker chuckled, humourlessly. “Go all the way.” A childish way of putting it. Chris wanted to protest. Wesker didn’t let him. “We can’t risk it.” He was smiling now, petting Chris’ hair, tender. Almost uncharacteristically so. “If you can’t walk, how can we find,” he paused, his eyes shifted, then slowly, “the others.” Though it didn’t seem like it was his first choice in words. Didn’t seem like it at all.

Chris shivered, unnerved. But still aroused. The friction of Wesker shifting, even slightly, with the blonde’s breathing, was enough to keep him painfully hard. “I’ll be fine.” Damn his uncertainty. He swallowed. “Please, Wesker, let’s just--,” He leaned up, cutting himself off, kissing his superior. He lifted his hips in time, rubbed himself against the evident bulge Wesker was also still sporting. Wesker rubbed back, bracing a hand on the bed to give him more leverage into the thrust. Chris groaned.

His hands were on his belt, tugging it open as quickly as he could manage. Wesker had already undone his own trousers, lent Chris a helping hand with his zipper. As soon as the hands were removed, he surged forward, filling the space. Chris let out another sound, closer to a sigh, as their flesh bumped, lined up and moved together. There was friction, perfect delicious delirious friction, and Chris found he didn’t even care about the occasional bite of zipper, the bulky push of underwear and pants. He pushed harder, closer to orgasm than he wanted to admit, his hips snapping up.

Maybe Wesker read something in that motion, the finality of it, because, with a smirk he whispered, “Don’t come yet.”

Chris floundered, biting back a whine forcefully, denting his lip. His body shook, too close to back off, not close enough to finish, and Chris managed to drag himself back from that brink. Though just barely. Wesker’s grin didn’t help Chris’ position. There was something gloating in his captain’s eyes, some edge, dangerous and sharp as a blade. Wesker licked his lips, tongue sliding over flesh in a display that was wanton and telling. Chris’ fingers scrabbled, his cock gave twitch as hot, moist, rightness engulfed him.

They were usually too busy fucking to bother terribly much with foreplay, and, as Wesker’s perfect lips wrapped around his cock, his tongue scouring him with waves of heat, Chris wondered if maybe he had been missing out on something great. He moaned again, hating how undignified, how open he felt, and let his fingers run through Wesker’s short hair. His eyes longed to flicker close, to sink fully into the feelings his captain was sparking in him, but Chris fought the urge down. He had to watch. Had to. It could be the first, last and only time he’d experience this. Death was all around them. The thought made him harder, perversely.

He chocked on another noise as Wesker met his gaze. It was obscene, the blonde’s lips so taut around him, so shiny and pink. The white of Wesker’s skin, the colourless tone of glass, clashed nicely against Chris’ own tan, the almost angry rose shade of his cock. A cock that was rapidly disappearing between those pink lips again. Chris couldn’t handle the sight. His head tipped back, his eyes sliding shut, fingers digging in.

“Captain, I’m,” the words were lost, somewhere in the universe beyond him. But Wesker heard him, knew what he meant, for, if anything, he sucked harder, drawing out a slight noise of protest from the brunette under him. The feelings were overloading him, pushing him further, faster than he was ready. With another jolt, a spasm of his muscles, a clenching of his stomach, a rush from his balls, Chris came. And Wesker took it all. Placed little kisses up and down Chris’ length, while the brunette came down, his breathing harsh. “Wesk--,”

He was silenced with a kiss, his mouth pliant and willing under Wesker’s, opening at the slightest insistence. It had always grossed him out, the thought of his own release, but at that moment he couldn’t care less. He sucked on the tongue that stroked his own, tasted Wesker and something that was probably himself, a musty, salt flavour. His hand found Wesker’s erection as the two kissed, worked it slowly, squeezing but not teasing. There wasn’t time for teasing. His hand moved, determined and deft, pacing with Wesker’s kisses, raising in intensity.

Wesker bit him, nibbled his lips; Chris twisted his hand, flicked at the crown of Wesker’s dick. Wesker groaned in the back of his throat, gnawed Chris’ pulse point, the jumping line of life in his throat. Chris responded, dropping his other hand to tug lightly on Wesker’s balls, roll them gently in hand, never losing his rhythm. Up and down and twist and up and twist and down and up and. His palm was coated with pre-come. It made the going easier. He could feel the tensing of Wesker’s thighs, his knees pressing into Chris’ sides. And he knew the blonde was close.

He leaned his head back, taking in Wesker’s expression, committing it to memory. He prayed (though he’d never been much into organised religion) that it wouldn’t be the last time he’d see it. And then Wesker was coming. Messy and clinging whiteness, staining Chris’ hands and shirt, and while normally that too would have bothered Chris, he found he didn’t care. No one would see the stains. And it might be the last thing he’d have of his captain. Wesker was breathing, heavily, his head bowed forward, forehead to forehead with Chris. His breath smelt like mint, even though it had been hours since they’d flown out of Raccoon City proper. Chris held onto that scent, catalogued it away in his mind. He wanted to remember everything, every inch of Wesker’s sweat-slicked body.

But there wasn’t time.

Chris made a noise of protest, but made no move to stop Wesker from swinging off his lap. He watched, wanting to speak and afraid of what he could say, as the blonde tucked himself away, did up his pants, re-clipped his belt and S.T.A.R.S. vest, pulled on his gloves. Wesker didn’t seem to know what to say either. Always the cool headed one, but now he was silent.

“Don’t die out there.” It was all Chris could think of to say. Wesker smiled at him, offered no words of his own, turned to leave. Chris had to stop him, if only for another moment. He had to make the right words come. “Wesker.” The captain turned again at the use of his name, eyebrows quirked over his blue eyes. He hadn’t put the sunglasses on yet, but they were in his hand. Chris swallowed, fighting with himself, with the things he’d never said and always meant to. The things he was afraid to admit even to himself. The things he’d cusped the edge of, standing in Wesker’s kitchen months ago.

“I love you.”

Wesker blinked, taking the confession in slowly. Chris could see him, turning the words over in his mind, analysing each bit individually. It seemed to take a long time for just three little words to process. “Yes, I,” Wesker’s hand swept through his hair, and for a moment something shivered in his cool façade. A nervousness, a guard, something un-Albert Wesker-like and yet eerily familiar, “I think you do, Christopher.”

Chris stood, slowly, awkwardly. Faced Wesker without choking on his own blush. “Yeah. I just.” He just what? He didn’t know. “Thought you should know.” It wasn’t like he’d expected a confession back or anything. Except, he sort of had, hadn’t he?

Wesker offered him another small smile. “Okay, Chris.” He checked his gun, it was habit, there was death all around them. Between them. “Be careful, okay?”

And really there was nothing else to be said. Chris zipped his pants up as Wesker crossed the room, had his vest back on before the blonde even had the door open. He checked his own clip, imitating Wesker without realising it. Nine bullets left. Chris felt his heart sink, despair coiling through his gut like a snake, venomous and bitter. Nine bullets. There was no way in hell. But he struck off any way. What else could he do?

*** An Epilogue***

Time had passed.

An unidentified stretch of it. It could have been hours. Or days.

Chris sat up, slowly, hand automatically going to his head, cupping his temple. Even that small motion sent waves of pain through him, sliding down his spine to pool in his stomach. Whoever had hit him had done a good job of it; Chris was a tad surprised he wasn’t dead. His fingers danced over the spot gingerly, afraid to put too much pressure any one place. He hissed as his pointer brushed the impact spot and retracted his hand quickly.

After Wesker had left him in the Mansion Drug Room, Chris had pouted about the mansion trying to be of use. Wesker hadn’t been lying about seeing Barry it seemed (and why would he, Chris mused to himself, there’d be no gain in it), for someone had been moving about the mansion separate from Chris. And, apparently, had been having a much better go of it. The mysterious armour locks had rapidly been coming unlocked. And a helmet lock Chris found on the west side of the mansion (a floor above the Drug Room that he’d come to think of as his), had been unlocked while Chris wandered around the east wing. This same someone must have helped find the remaining crests too, for when Chris got out to the garden path, they were all in place and a few corpses of dogs littered the area. He had been just as happy to have missed the party.

His wanderings in the walled courtyards had turned up similar results. He had been late to the game. Dead animals were numerous; their bullet-riddled corpses had lain helter-skelter in both the upper and lower courtyards. He’d been attacked himself by a crow on the elevator ride down to the lower yard, had failed at trying to ward the persistent thing off with his knife and had been forced to shoot it as it dove at his face. Yet another wasted bullet. He had failed to find any more ammo in the mansion.

Chris sighed, then froze. His hand found his gun holster, came up empty. Same with his shoulder scabbard. Chris’ heart rate picked up, his mouth went dry. He took in his surroundings for the first time.

He had made it as far as the underground lab, had followed the footsteps and puzzle solving of Barry or Jill or whoever. He had entered the first room he found, and had been bending over to look at a file when--

Chris winced, his temple ringing with pain at the memory. Someone had hit him, that was for certain. And had then apparently moved him. To a cell. He looked around, controlling his breathing, refusing to panic even though it fluttered behind his eyes, more than willing to wrap him in its warmth. It certainly wasn’t the room he’d been knocked out in. It was smaller, sparser, furnished with only a cot and a desk. There was one door, metal and dirty with three viewing holes punched into it. Swallowing around his fear, Chris stood, pushed on the door. He wasn’t exactly surprised when it didn’t budge.

But he wasn’t exactly ready for it either.

The panic he’d kept to a simmer suddenly boiled up, flooding through him like high tide, eroding away the face of every other emotion he owned. He threw himself at the locked door, suddenly aware that it must open, it had to. His sanity depended on it. He beat at the door, hands and elbows ringing and bruising with each impact. He began to yell, even though he wasn’t sure the words he was saying. Tears threatened on the edge of his voice, at the corners of his eyes.

And then, just as suddenly as it had taken over, the panic receded. Chris fell back onto the cot, feeling empty and lost. Uncertain.

_“Albert, listen. There’s been some…leaks?”_

The voice was an echo, a memory. It was a different lifetime, a lifetime where people didn’t die and then get back up and eat other people. Chris shrugged it off, uncertain why his mind whispered it over and over, so persistently.

_“--some…leaks?”_

He remembered the way the man had been breathing. Saying ‘Albert’ over and over. Chris had never asked Wesker about that call, that caller. It hadn’t seemed his place. But something about it.

_“--leaks? It seems like--like, well, fuck, like things aren’t.”_

Chris shivered again. Hugged his knees to his chest. Tried to recall what had happened just before he’d been knocked out. Tried to think if he’d seen the face, or anything. He remembered the file. A list of names. Of scientists. The fuckers who’d created this damn plague.

_“--leaks?”_

He closed his eyes. Tried to remember any of the names, the specifics. It certainly could have been one of them, he guessed. Some rouge scientist who decided some field testing would be perfect for his genetically engineered virus. Some lucky bastard who got the drop on Chris, who’d knocked him out and dragged him here. Wherever here was. But it didn’t sit right.

_“--like, well, fuck, like things aren’t. God, I don’t know.”_

William. He had said his name, tacked on to the end of the message. William. And he called Wesker Albert, though Chris hadn’t heard anyone do that. Not even Irons. And sometimes Wesker’s eyes held something dark, and snake-like and deadly and sharp, like a blade. Sharp enough to hurt. To kill.

To betray.

_“--Leaks?”_

Said like it wasn’t the right word. Like it wasn’t the right word at all.

_“If you can’t walk, how can we find the…others?”_

Said like it wasn’t the right word. Like it wasn’t the right word at all.

Chris throat tightened, his stomach heaved. He pushed himself off the cot, puked all over the corner. It wasn’t right. It couldn’t be right. There wasn’t any way. Wesker was one of his best friends. His boss. His lover. He trusted the blonde, implicitly. Fully. There was no way.

Except there was.

_“--fuck, like things aren’t.”_

_“I’m looking for something.”_

‘Don’t you mean someone?’ Chris had asked, perfectly innocent. Trusting. Stupid. And Wesker’s look, that shifting dangerous edge. He’d had that same look, standing in his kitchen, wearing only a towel, trying to figure out who Chris had been talking to.

_“Albert…like things aren’t.”_

Aren’t what? Chris wanted to ask. Like things aren’t what? Going according to plan. There had been leaks. Leaks. Infection? It was about a week after he’d heard that call that those hikers had gone missing. The first of several strange murders and disappearances. Chris hadn’t put it together then. Had had no reason to. And when he’d suggested the involvement of the Spencer Estate…the way Wesker had shot him down. Without reason. Guarded and throwing his colours, flashing his scales as sure as a rattler rattles to warn its enemies.

_“I love you.”_

Chris’ voice now. A few hours (maybe, unless he’d been out a lot longer than he suspected) earlier. Wesker’s eyes had been so defensive at those words. Shuttered. Shielded. He didn’t want Chris’ love. He didn’t need it. He worked for Umbrella. Or was now. Or…

Chris clutched at his head, drawing it between his knees, despite the burn from his temple as he did so. It still was impossible. Theories built in the sand. And, oh God, how Chris hoped that’s all they were. How he hoped a wave would crash in, pull the bottom out from under them. He felt betrayed, regardless of whether his assumption was based on fact or not. Betrayed and hurt and beneath that, angry. A rage simmered in him, boiled and seethed, just below the surface. He’d been used. Used. They all had.

But mostly him.

Because Wesker had bedded him. And conquered him. And controlled and fucked him. And now. Had fucked him over.

No, that wasn’t right.

Had led him to death. He remembered, in the Drug Room, watching as Wesker zipped his pants, the awkwardness between them. There had never been such an ocean of unease before. Never. But that’s because there hadn’t been death between them. In them. Wesker had brought death to the table where Chris brought love, pure and faithful.

_“I love you.”_

He hadn’t though. He had loved a lie. Some face. Some mask. The real Wesker was that other Wesker, the Wesker that handled those three words with the tender care of a scientist, studying them. Measuring them. Chris’ love hadn’t been enough to halt this betrayal. Hadn’t been enough to save anyone. Not even himself.

Chris let himself tip to the side, curled into himself on the cot. He wasn’t sure what would happen next. Whether he was to be left in this cell until he starved. Whether someone would come to his rescue. His temple throbbed, came and went in waves. Dragging him out to sea with it. As tender as any lover. As dangerous as his last one. Chris’ eyes fluttered closed, his cheeks burned with shame. He’d let himself be used. No two ways about it.

There were no questions left in him, despite the fact he had no proof to back up his convictions. His gut was proof enough. His memories were proof enough.

_“--love you.”_

_“Yes, I, I think you do, Christopher.”_

Not the answer he’d wanted or needed. But the answer he’d gotten all the same. The knoll of a bell. The hand signing the death warrant. The waves of pain brought warmth, a sheet of fire across the front of his brain. He wondered if he would starve or go mad first. Or maybe he’d be saved all of that. He was sure he had a concussion. Maybe he’d slip into a coma and die. Or maybe Wesker would come back here and just shoot him. He wished he had shot him in the first place. It would have been faster. And easier for Chris, at least. Less painful.

There was a noise from outside the cell, but Chris paid it very little mind. He was locked in a cell without a hope of escape, he felt more than entitled to indulge his melodramatic thoughts. He wondered if Jill was dead. If Barry was. He wondered if maybe Brad hadn’t come back and saved everyone, except for Chris, of course, because no one knew he was alive, except for Wesker. He wondered if it would hurt, to starve to death (he was convinced this would be what happened, death by starvation had been his fear since he’d worked a case where a man had kidnapped kids and left them in cells together with no food--the sick fuck got off on watching them eat one another) or if he wouldn’t feel anything at all. He wasn’t afraid of the pain. But he was afraid of the madness. Was afraid he might try to eat himself. His hands or his feet. He didn’t like the thought, his stomach roiled with it, threatened to send him, vomiting, back to the corner.

Someone touched his door. Pulled on the handle.

Chris nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound. He sat up, tentative. Then quietly, as quiet as he could manage, stood. He peered out the holes at the top of the door, bracing himself for the sight of Wesker, smirking and blonde and triumphant. Instead, he found Jill, looking worn and bruised and old beyond her years. She smiled when she saw him, a small, beatific smile and held up a key. It was the damn near loveliest sight Chris thought he’d ever seen.

_“I love you.”_

_“Yes, I, I think you do, Christopher.”_

He pushed the thought away. But it clung, persistent. Shuffled back off into the shadows with the other memories of Wesker. Where it would stew. And fester. And flower.

“Where is he?” He asked as the door opened.

Jill regarded him for a moment, concerned and thoughtful. The slowly. “You mean Wesker?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “He’s dead. Killed by his own monster. Stabbed through the chest,” she shuddered at the memory, Chris could see the way it raked at her, “there was blood everywhere. And his ribs were, I could see them, when I.” He put a hand on her arm, stopped her. He didn’t need to know. Didn’t want to. Despite the rage in him, the newborn hatred.

“And the others?” He knew Barry was alive, had seen the note he’d left in the east section of the mansion. Or, at least he had been alive.

“Dead. Or waiting. For you. And me. Rebecca and Barry. Brad contacted us.”

“Brad?” It was too good to be true.

“Yeah. There’s a helipad on the roof. He’s been circling it. But we have to hurry.” She was starting to hurry herself, jogging off, Chris close on her heels. Brad had contacted them. Was there, on the roof, waiting. It was too good to be true.

_“Yes, I, I think you do, Christopher.”_

Or there was that. Bitter, mournful pain, an emotional concussion. Maybe he’d get out alive. But he’d always have this, this venomous betrayal to live with. Distantly, from the shore of some far off beach, Chris again wished Wesker had just shot him. It would have been faster. And less painful.

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity issues. Yes, I know. The hallway with the tiger is locked with the armour key and “from the other side”; but I liked the sentiment ‘had given it to him in exchange for an eye’ too much to care about the continuity. Oh, and of course, Forest’s corpse is behind an armour locked door and if Chris is carrying around the dog whistle, it means no one has retrieved that key yet. Also, in the GC version, which was the version I set out intending to follow, you don’t need the Wind, Sun, Star and Moon Crests to get into the shed, but finding the Stone & Metal Object didn’t seem grand enough to support the rest of the plot. Blah blah blah. Point being, I know I didn’t follow any one version of the game here to the letter, but if you’re reading this story, then ‘to-the-letter’ shouldn’t be your main priority anyway.
> 
> Also, I used to have an account on AFF, so while this is my first time posting this pairing here, I have written A LOT of Chris/Wesker.
> 
> Hope you liked it and leave me comments if you feel I've earned them, etc.


End file.
